Dr Jekyll and Mr Holmes
by docturlough
Summary: Stephen Moffat's Neo-Victorian characters go head-to-head. After the assault on a prominent MP, Sherlock is called out to Edinburgh to find a missing person...and his violent entourage.
1. Chapter 1

Tom Jackman didn't run when the dreams started again.

In the dream, he was walking across the rooftops of London, like in Mary Poppins. He felt each item of clothing like they were extensions of himself, he felt the rough roofs beneath the rubber soles of his feet. He felt the wind through his coat, as soft as a milk bath. He felt the end of the rooftop on his toes, and he felt no hesitation, no reservations. One step and he was over the edge. He didn't feel the terminal velocity of the fall, the wild, untameable wind. All he felt was freedom and oblivion, dark and complete and silence. He felt better than he'd felt in his whole life. The first time he'd made love to his wife couldn't compare to this. This fiction, this dream, it was better than the day his sons were born. _By far_.

His ankles didn't buckle, didn't hurt when he reached the pavement. Like a caring mother, London embraced him, and he was strutting through the streets as though he were their king. The streets were empty, vacant, but not for long. Suddenly, Tom was standing at the head of a hill of corpses, he felt naked, born again, and the only thing ruining his absolution and the immersion of himself within it was the pulsating organ in his right hand. He looked, and there she was, Claire. Her hair was a mess and her face was bloody. She was cut and bruised and pleading for her life. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registered to Tom that this should be horrifying. It should be, but it wasn't. In Tom's mind, this was hilarious. He laughed like a giddy child, excitement and joy bubbling in his blood like a drug. He squeezed.

He woke up in pools of sweat at night, but he felt as though these were just echoes. Ripples of times gone by. He'd felt them for a while, but it'd been five years, and he thought he was making progress. He wasn't afraid anymore. He was content, happy even. He settled down again next to Claire, and he sighed, thankful she was still alive. But, still, somewhere in his stomach, something told him he didn't mean it.

Then the blackouts started.

They'd happen briefly. He'd be pouring tea, and all of a sudden his hand would be scorched by the boiling water. He'd go blank, and his pen would scar his page of notes, ruining them. The worst was when he picked up Harry, his son, and then become entirely vacant. His fingers had loosened, only for a second, and Harry fell to the ground, dislocating his ankle. He'd apologised to Claire profusely, but she didn't want to hear it. This is how he was before the whole thing had started, she'd say, this is why they drifted apart. _How dare she imply that?_ his mind had roared, _How dare she say it was all YOUR fault! It takes two to fuck up a marriage, honey!_

Claire looked shocked. Had he said that out loud? He was slipping, and he could see it, but do nothing about it. He didn't know if Hyde was back, but he knew that Jackman wasn't all there, either.

So he had run.

He found himself now, sitting on the edge of his cheap bed, in his cheap apartment, in his cheap block of a cheap section of Edinburgh. This is where he spent his Saturday nights, and this is where he blacked out.

Only, he didn't. He fell backwards, and where he expected the bed to catch him, it didn't. He fell through it, but wasn't surprised at all. He fell for a while, completely calm, and then found himself suddenly standing, surrounded by nothing but darkness. _What the hell is going on?_

And there he was. Sitting in the old chair, all the straps and the locks and the keypad all there, all replicated in perfect detail. His frame was slim, but stronger than when he had last been unleashed. His shoulders were higher and his muscles were lithe and strong. His jaw was less narrow, and his hair was a little longer. The simple white shirt he wore was pristine, a testament to his fine tastes. The strong, Belfast accent boomed and whispered all at once.

"Look Daddy," Mr Hyde said, "I've grown up."

The apparition raised his head, and he looked at Tom Jackman through smoky black eyes. His crooked, pointed teeth formed a malicious smile. Tom felt his stomach churn and the hairs on the back of his neck prick up. His eyes welled up with tears. He had never seen Hyde like this. Never in his head. Hyde was always the dominant one. He asked himself why Hyde would appear to him like this, and the answer followed like the cars of a speeding train, though he wasn't sure if it was he himself who answered, or Hyde: _He's being submissive. He doesn't want to take control, doesn't want to kill. He wants to talk. _In many ways, this frightened him much more than the other option.

Tom's lips quivered as he spoke. "What do you want?"

Hyde's head cocked to the side. He was so playful, so childish, and so terrifying, all at once.

"I want to help us..."

His sentences never seemed to end, they hung in the air for a moment. Tom couldn't understand them. Dozens of questions bounded around in his head, sometimes they collided, forming new questions, new problems. He was becoming overwhelmed by it all.

"Us?", He finally breathed.

"He's been following us, Daddy,"

Before he could ask, Tom's head was flooded with information. Smells and sounds, occasional glimpses, all of the same person. The same movements, same aroma, all observing Tom as he walked around Edinburgh. Hyde's senses were multiplied a thousandfold, and Tom had never felt the rush of data that Hyde must have experienced at every waking moment. He was stunned, unable to react, so Hyde continued.

"I don't know who he is. He's new. We need to be careful. He knows." His voiced seemed to be coming from everywhere, even inside Tom's own head.

"B-b..." Tom began, stuttering like a child who'd just been told the truth for the first time, "But I can't see him, how can I-?"

He looked at Hyde, and Hyde was grinning. That grin. That grin that had haunted his dreams, as well as his wife's and his sons', for so long. Tom shook his head slowly, he knew what Hyde wanted. Knew what he meant. He wouldn't allow it.

"We did it once, Daddy. You know it can work..."

"I nearly died! I _did_ die! My entire _**FAMILY**_ nearly died because of us!"

Hyde's smile grew wider, like a wound across his face. Tom covered his mouth. He'd just referred to them as 'Us' he didn't do that. Not for a long time.

"We'll use the same rules, the same restrictions. Same agreement. Klein and Utterson aren't following you anymore. They haven't been for a long time."

"How do you know that _he _isn't from Klein and Utterson? How do you know you won't expose us?" He'd slipped again, but he didn't care.

Hyde's teeth moved, like an animal, preparing to pin something down with it's almighty fangs. The breath grew in the back of his throat like a growl. The sound moved through the air like smoke.

"Trust me."

On the bed, Mr Hyde woke up.


	2. Chapter 2

3 weeks later:

John remembered the exact second Katherine Reimer first walked into Baker Street.

He remembered the sound of the kettle clicking off just as the tapping reverberated from the door of he and Sherlock's room. Opening the door, he was struck by the specimen that he saw. Blood-red hair, beaming eyes, mile-long legs. Oh, yes. John Watson made a point to memorize the moment, right up until she ruined it.

"Sherlock Holmes?" She probed.

John sighed. Why was it that every woman who came to his door was either looking for Sherlock or _working_ for Mycroft? He led Katherine through the doorway, and just as he was about to close the door behind her, he felt resistance. He looked again, and saw an older woman standing in the doorway, out of breath. Her sharp eyes pressed into John with urgency, so he figured she must be with Katherine.

The two women followed him into the living room, where they were surprised to find the sofa turned upside down, and Sherlock lying, in his dressing gown, across the underbelly of it, his violin poised precariously on it's bow, which he was holding.

"Err..." For a long second, that was all John said, until, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's violin dipped threateningly to one side, but Sherlock accommodated the bow to hold it up.

After a long second, there was still no answer. Not an uncommon occurrence with Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Lestrade's work..." came the deep, monotone reply.

John looked around at the two women apologetically, then turned back to his flatmate.

"And he asked you to...?"

The answer came before John's question could hang in the air. "

"He asked me to figure out how Banksy got a Rolls Royce on top of Nelson's Column. I figured it out two hours ago, but my morphine wore off and I got bored."

Realization crossed Sherlock's face like a wave against a rock, before the tide pulled it back again. For the first time, he looked at his guests, but before they could speak, he forgot them and turned back to his balancing act. There was a long, awkward second before he spoke again.

"Am I being rude?"

"Yes, actually, you are." John rushed through gritted teeth.

"To who?"

_Damn him_, John thought. Sherlock had herded him right into that question, rather than ask the women himself and appear stupid. Subsequently, John now looked like a complete ass. Thankfully, the sharp-eyed brunette came to his rescue. Her voice was impatient, her tone fierce.

"Sherlock Holmes, my name is Claire Jackman." She stood forward, almost scolding Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at her. Hell, he was almost ashamed. John would never admit it, but he had to wrestle the smile off his face before the omniscient Consulting Detective could see. Sherlock was silent for a moment, then his sheepish nature ebbed slightly.

"And?"

"And we need your help." Katherine piped up, stepping to Claire's side. Sherlock's gaze darted between the two of them, analysing.

"Would you like a cup of tea? Kettle's just boiled." Sherlock asked, standing up and fixing the sofa.

John was startled. He honestly may have dropped dead then and there.

"Uhm, sure?" Katherine responded, warily.

"Mrs Jackman?" Sherlock sang, with the sweetest of smiles.

"N-no. None for me, thanks."

"Okay.", Sherlock's smile suddenly dropped, and he resumed his scowling default. "Two teas, please, John."

John's fists clenched. There was a time when he could just twist someone's nerves for talking to him like that. Although, he was usually fixing a wound at the time. He turned and went into the kitchen.

"Anyway," Claire began, unfazed by Sherlock's bi-polar tendencies, "I need your help, Mr Holmes."

"You do, _she_ doesn't." Sherlock gestured to Katherine with his bow. "Why is she even here?"

"I just said," Claire glared, "We need your help."

"You said _'I'_. Besides, you don't even like this woman."

"I-"

"If you liked her, you'd have came at the same time."

"We-"

"You're going to want to stop lying to me right about now." Sherlock sliced her rebuttal down with expert, practiced precision "You have been down in the café for the better part of an hour waiting for her."

Claire remained wisely silent, and both Katherine, and John, in the kitchen, stared on in awe. Sherlock looked between them, and then gave a deep groan.

"Oh, come on. It's obvious!" There was a moment of silence before Sherlock's ego-trip began. "Whenever Miss Whatsername,"

"Katherine." Katherine countered. Sherlock shot her a nasty glare, then recomposed himself, readying for a marathon of exposition.

"_Katherine, _spoke up, Mrs Jackman clenched her fists. She appeared angry upon entering the flat, and avoided looking at Katherine at all costs, this is further proven by the fact that when _faced_ with a man in his pyjamas balancing a violin on an upside down sofa, any normal person would look at their entourage, Mrs Jackman didn't. She almost did, but then she corrected herself.

Obvious, there are crumbs in the trim of Mrs Jackman's shirt, where those _ghastly_ scones from Mr. Chatterjee's 'Risk Bin'; that's where he keeps the stale ones, have crumbled into sand. Lastly, of course, there's the tea."

"The...tea?" Claire said, shellshocked.

"Yes, pretty basic, you refused tea because you'd already had a cup at Speedy's." With that, Sherlock fell blissfully back into his chair, happy with his monologue's anticlimactic end. John fought his urge to express his dismay at so trivial a pay-off, but Claire spoke first.

"That's...amazing." She breathed.

"That's my job. Now, what happened last week that was so horrible?"

Again, shocked faces all around. Sherlock continued regardless.

"You've been holding a newspaper in your hands since you got here. It's last weeks Express. You're subconsciously holding it forward, so obviously you want to tell me something about it."

For the first time, Claire drew attention to the newspaper, which was wrinkled and beaten. She opened it up, and flicked through a few pages, before arriving at a page which bore the headline:

_MP DANIEL CAREW MERCILESSLY BEATEN: Prominent MP in critical condition after violent assault._

"I..." Katherine began, but was halted by a quizzical look from Sherlock. "_We_ think it may have something to do with the Edinburgh Spider-Man stories that've been popping up recently."

"Spider- Man?" John asked, his mind instantly recalling the Tale of the Blind Banker.

"We've dealt with Spider-Men before," Sherlock explained, "Has your husband recently had any contact with the Chinese, Mrs Jackman?"

Claire looked confused. She hadn't mentioned a husband.

"There's a wedding ring on your finger, it's smudged where you've been toying with it, the smudges are recent, so it was clearly done while you were at Speedy's, reading the article." Sherlock gave his explanation bluntly, eager to gather more data rather than simply impress Claire Jackman.

Claire's expression changed to apprehensive. "I don't know, I haven't seen Tom in six months. No-one has. We think he may be in Edinburgh, but we weren't sure if we should tell someone until now."

"You think your _husband _did this?"

"N-not exactly..." Katherine answered on Claire's behalf. Sherlock looked back and forth between the two of them again, until it became apparent his pressing gaze was in vain.

"Right, I can see I'm not getting any more out of you two. I'll take the case." Sherlock snatched the newspaper out of Claire's hand and gestured the two women out the door with it. "I'll keep this."

John led the two women out of the flat, and, just before Katherine left, he cast his question randomly into the air, as he usually did with women.

"So, you and me, any chance you wanna...go for coffee, or...?"

Katherine turned and gave him a slight smirk. It looked good on her.

"I don't date clients, I suggest you follow my good example."

She left, then, closing the door behind her. John's let his head fall onto the painted wood, bereft and sighing. After a moment of recuperation, he turned back into the living room. Sherlock was already spread-eagle on the sofa, deep in thought.

"You don't think it's the Black Lotus, do you?"

"I don't know yet..." Sherlock groaned, his eyes closed.

"Who was the victim? Carew? Jackman? Both? What's the motive, even? Antiques again? "

"There are 167 possible reasons for murder, John, I wrote a blog about it, it's on the website."

Sherlock gestured lazily towards John's laptop with the newspaper. John moved to intercept Sherlock's arm, and snatched the newspaper from it.

"Have you read the article yet?"

"I don't care..."

John looked up from the article to Sherlock, shocked.

"You don't care? Then why'd you take the case?"

At this point, Sherlock's eyes flickered open and he sat bolt upright, his sapphire dressing gown poured across the sofa, giving him the appearance of Lazarus, back from the dead.

"Did you notice, John, how neither Claire nor Katherine spoke much about the husband?"

"Uhh, yeah. She only said his name...Tom." John answered, puzzled.

"_That's _the case, John. Find a man in a city of 440,000 with nothing but a name, a comatose MP, and a Spider-Man to go on. I want to know why Claire Jackman is afraid of her husband, John. I want to know who he is and what he's capable of..."

...

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, this story will go Jekyll chapter/Sherlock chapter/ Jekyll chapter etc. for a while. This chapter is set 3 weeks before the first, but the next chapter (a Jekyll one) will be set a week before this one (so that's 2 weeks after the first chapter. Get it? Good.) Anyway, R&R, because reviews are what keeps me writing._


	3. Chapter 3

One week ago:

Mr Hyde loved the night life.

Edinburgh was a city very suited to his tastes, loose women, drugs relatively easy to find, and piss-cheap booze. He prowled through her alleys and her loud, ugly underbelly, where the _real_ denizens of Edinburgh went, his jet-black eyes scanning the barely-covered arses of barely-legal girls. His pointed grin stretched across his face as though hooks were dragging it.

The lights were low in this place. Being almost midnight, the girls were nice and drunk, he liked that in a woman. Approaching a voluptuous little redhead, slumped invitingly across the bar, he made his eyes big and put on his best Little Beggar Boy voice.

"a'Scuse me missez..." his voice slinked through the air like a serpent. She turned, her eyes struggling to focus.

"Wha...?" She replied, sluggishly.

"I's just wonderin'..." The voice dropped here, and his direct knife-like voice came into play "Do you prefer to be on top or bottom?"

A smile played across her painted lips for a moment, before a skinny little pissant with a low-cut top and a death wish cut in between them.

"Oi! What'chu think yer doin' with my girl?" His harsh accent growled.

"Well, I _was_ asking her permission. But now, just to spite you, I'm going to fuck her each way!"

The drunken fool swung a wide, easy punch. Hyde could have done a dozen things to a hundred arteries with the time and space given to him, and the world would have been no poorer, but as it stood, he had a deal with his Daddy, and he settled for snapping the little bastards arm in three places and bringing his head down on a bottle of beer. He would live, but whether he would ever see out of his left eye again was anyone's guess. Hyde grinned at that as he escorted the redhead to the alley.

By half past one in the morning, Hyde had ditched the redhead, and was now carting a blonde and a blue-haired bimbo around the streets of Edinburgh. They laughed and screamed and stumbled and laughed again, all the while, Mr Hyde stood resolute, his black suit a column on which these two women hung. He was just looking for a place to shag and ditch them. No-one said he had to _listen_ to them, for fuck's sake.

Just then, the scent crossed his highly-strung nose. It was the first time he'd caught it while in control, usually it was filtered through Jackman's dull brain first. The various smells and hints caught in his nostrils and were sorted accordingly. Hyde inhaled strongly, getting the last of the scent before the wind carried it away. His brain moved faster than a human could comprehend, detailing the subject's life story.

_40 years old. Muscular, but letting himself go. Receding hairline, probably blonde. Year-old-suit, dry cleaned recently. No tie. Sweaty. Cold. Had a Chinese for lunch. Mobile phone call made 10 minutes ago, sweat on phone still fresh. Out of breath. Scared. 25 feet..._

"...That way." Hyde growled, turning.

"Did you say someth-?" One of the women moaned. Before she could finish, he was gone.

The women collapsed in a heap first. Then, the man who had been following him took note, a little too slowly. He turned to run, and saw the alley behind him stretch to an impossible length. Mr Hyde had already planned the hunt out in his head. He stalked his prey first, a low growl in his ear spurred his stalker to run, and when he passed the grinning Hyde in the alley, he nearly tripped over himself trying to escape.

As Daniel Carew left the grasp of shadows and leaped into the moonlight, he looked back, searching for Mr Hyde. He wasn't there. Daniel turned back, sucking in air, and found himself face-to-face with a fanged beast, his eyes radiating fire and his cascading roar shaking the very ground. Daniel screamed as tears stung his eyes. There was no-where left to go, he was going to die.

Mr Hyde showed a surprising degree of restraint as he sent his coiled palm into Carew's throat, flipping him backwards and into the cobblestone face of Edinburgh. Carew choked violently as Hyde fumed, the escaping air of his nostrils forming a hellish fog around his head in the cold. As Carew rolled to stand, gratitude for his life seeping into him, Hyde grabbed the back of his jacket and threw him halfway down the street, sheer animal ferocity lending to his propulsion.

Daniel Carew stood again, his adrenaline pumping and his legs now under him. He tried to run, but crashed into the crisp white shirt of Mr Hyde. Confusion and hysteria poisoned his brain, driving out reason and logic. He began to cry. He was so scared.

Hyde growled, almost slobbering. He hated criers, they were pathetic, snivelling little cowards. Criers were small fish. Criers were never the ringleaders.

"Who are you working for?" Hyde spat. He wasn't playing or being cute anymore. He wasn't going to run in circles around this one. He was going to stamp out this shit before it started.

For the second time that night, Daniel Carew had to come to terms with the expectation that he was going to die immediately, only to be blindsided by Hyde's mercy. Hyde didn't have mercy, and Carew knew this. That's why he was so scared. Daniel blubbered, trying to force the words out, but they just wouldn't move. He could feel them, standing like statues, petrified at the back of his mouth.

"I will not ask again!" Hyde roared, a raw, animalistic roar that echoed through to Carew's very core, "Who. Are. You. Working. For?"

Daniel crumbled. He collapsed, falling to his knees, sobs bursting out of him in throat-ripping cries. Mr Hyde's patience fell away as Daniel sank, and he caught the MP by the jaw before the pain in his knees had faded. Mr Hyde squeezed his clawed hand, and Daniel felt the pressure on his bone. He felt it about to snap, and he imagined his teeth all jutting out of his mouth and his lips overflowing with blood. The darkness in Mr Hyde's eyes told him that this would happen. Soon.

"M-m-" Daniel tried to say.

"Go on..." Hyde rasped through gritted teeth. He didn't loosen his grip on Daniel, so that his victim would have to summon his last recesses of strength if he wanted to survive.

"Mm..." Daniel tried to open his pinned jaw. His muscles burst into flame and stung his cheeks, but he struggled on, fighting. Hyde's nails dug into his face.

"MORIARTY!"

Hyde released him immediately, and Daniel Carew fell backward, groping at his face, the pain emanating from it was excruciating and unimaginable. He cried like a child, wailing and screaming, before Mr Hyde spun him around and laid a foot on his chest, pressing into his ribs mercilessly.

"And where can I find Mr Moriarty?" He smiled. God, that smile. Daniel would never forget it.

"P-promise you won't kill me..."

Hyde's smile dropped, Daniel instantly regretted his words. Suddenly, he was in the air, and a wall leaped into his back, the harsh bricks cutting into any flesh they could find.

"Let me tell you how it is, you disgusting little streak of Neanderthal piss!" Hyde's pointed fangs clamped open and closed mere inches from Daniel's face as he spoke. "You are in no position to bargain! If I want to kill you, I will skin you alive and then hang you by a rope made of your own leather! I promise you that!

Now, I want you to tell me where I can find your pathetic little boss, and then, I'll decide whether I want to kill you or not. That's how this works!"

Nothing in the world could have stopped the torrent of words that fell from Daniel Carew's lips that night. He told Mr Hyde everything. Moriarty had wanted to meet Hyde for years, he had sent Carew to find him, to talk to him. Carew had been given minimal information on his mission., and one thing Moriarty had spectacularly neglected to tell him was that you cannot talk to Mr Hyde.

Within the minute, Daniel Carew could taste his own blood and see nothing but the long, open road in front of him. He could feel the cold stone on his face, but nothing else below his neck. There was a darkness creeping along him, and the last thing he saw before it swallowed him completely was a pair of headlights in the distance.

Mr Hyde climbed up the wall of the nearest building. I like this city, he thought.


End file.
